


the life's so lonely (i need my one and only)

by defcontwo



Series: stay a little longer (you're making me feel i'm not alone) [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long week, an even longer Christmas Party and Alfred's Christmas cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the life's so lonely (i need my one and only)

For the sake of PR and a couple of other reasons that Tim assumes are mostly bullshit, Bruce has gotten it into his head that the Wayne family needs to throw a giant Christmas Party to show their good cheer and better ingratiate themselves to the greater community. 

Attendance for the Wayne kids is, of course, mandatory. 

Tim gets it. There's a purpose to this public facade that they put on, to the nonchalance and careless privilege that they wear like an ill-fitting second skin. Brucie, the free-wheeling high society idiot is worlds away from Bruce, the focused and often ruthless Batman, and when you juxtapose the two, it's impossible to imagine that they could ever be the same person. It's misdirection at its finest, an ongoing endeavor in achieving plausible deniability for them to lean on when the going gets tough and the journalists come digging. 

It's not that Tim can't do it. It's not that Tim's not incredibly convincing with his thousand dollar suits and pasted on smile, but. 

He fucking hates it. 

It's freezing cold with a blizzard on the way and it's been a long last week before breaking for the holidays at WE and if he had his choice, he'd be spending the evening by the fire in his penthouse apartment in sweatpants, trying to see how long he can get away with marathoning shitty soap operas before the vein in Jason's forehead starts throbbing. 

Instead, he's suited up in Italian wool, too-warm in a packed ballroom, eyeing a crowd full of bright and glittering people that he's probably supposed to make nice with some time soon. To be fair, though, he does like this suit -- it's a dark grey houndstooth number that Tam helped him pick out upon declaring him completely useless at dressing himself in anything other than kevlar, and it's not as heavy or as expensive as some of the other things Bruce has tried to talk him into buying for himself. If he weren't in such a sour mood, he might actually enjoy it. 

As it is, he purposefully wore mismatching socks just to be spiteful. 

"Gee, little brother, you could look at least a little bit happy to be here," Dick says, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. 

"What, I don't look happy? Because I am possibly ecstatic, couldn't be more thrilled," Tim deadpans. 

"I'd think that Jason's a terrible influence on you if I didn't know that you've always secretly been this much of a snarky little shitbird," Dick says and Tim snorts inelegantly, glad he wasn't drinking anything. Champagne all down the front of his suit is probably the last thing his night needs. 

"I might be a little _more_ happy if someone didn't routinely keep me from grabbing a glass of champagne," Tim says, giving both Dick and Bruce, who's standing across the room deep in conversation with the Mayor, pointed looks. 

"One of us has to be come off as the wholesome one," Dick says. 

"So why can't it be Damian?" Tim says, but he can't keep a straight face as he's saying it and Dick is letting out a long-suffering sigh. 

On the other side of the room, Cass has a firm hand on the back of Damian's neck to keep him from misbehaving. Every once in a while, he gets this scrunched up goblin look on his face like he wants to burst out and say something nasty to what was undoubtedly some inane high society blathering but all Cass has to do is squeeze at his shoulder and look down at him, and he deflates noticeably. Tim's been watching it out of the corner of his eye for the past hour or so, it's been his only highlight of the night. 

"It really is so great to have her back, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, okay, I'm leaving you, you giant killjoy. Go make your own fun, Timmers," Dick says, as he takes off towards Bruce. 

Tim remains where he's standing, fiddling with his tie and eyeing the people standing around him. He should definitely be making nice with at least a few of them but he's not sure if he's up to the usual small talk that always somehow manages to include both a) insincere condolences about his parents and b) inquiries into the state of his love life. 

It'd be easier if he could come out and say that he's actually seeing someone, probably, but something about falling in with your legally dead adopted brother doesn't exactly make that the easiest conversation. 

Tim lets out a low whine. He's feeling sorry for himself and he knows it, well on his way to a self-indulgent slump when a hand reaches out and hooks into the crook of his left arm, a champagne glass waving itself in front of him. 

A flash of purple and yellow out of the corner of his eye answers his question for him. "Steph? Why are you here?" 

Steph shrugs. "Bored. Had nothing better to do. B promised me free food. I'm easy, I'm a college student, you say free food and I'm there. Now take the alcohol, you great big whining baby." 

"I love you," Tim says and Steph just shakes her head as Tim takes a long pull from the glass of champagne she placed into his hand. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's always the sweet talk when you want something from me," Steph says but she's already reaching behind her to grab them both another glass of champagne so she probably doesn't mean it too much. 

Tim downs the second glass in a quick, sharp motion, wincing a bit as it goes down. He's a terrible lightweight and this is a terrible idea, probably, but the press already thinks that he's a spoiled party boy cut from the same cloth as Brucie, so he might as well play into it. 

"You gonna go mingle?" Steph asks. 

Tim runs a hand through his hair before straightening his tie. "Yup. Once more unto the breach."

"You want me to go with you?"

Tim raises an eyebrow at her. "I appreciate you asking but we both know you want to go over there and help Cass terrorize Damian." 

"Hey now," Steph says and her voice is taking on that tone that means she's going to work up to one of her grandiose, overdone speeches. "Friendship trumps terrorizing the demon every day of the week. I'm here for you. Wingwoman Brown. Your knight in shining, purple armor…"

"Just go." 

"Thank God, you're on your own, good luck," Steph says, giving Tim a swift kiss on the cheek before darting off. 

Tim spends the greater part of the next hour going from clump of people to clump of people, occasionally getting dragged out onto the dance floor by women old enough to be his grandmother, before he's figured he's more than put in his share of Christmas cheer and smarm, and besides, he hasn't heard from Jason all night which he's got to admit, is a little on the weird side. 

He more than half expected Jason to crash the party, like he's done for the past three or four parties, showing up in increasingly ridiculous disguises to drag Tim off into the nearest closet and carefully and thoroughly muss him up. Hair sticking up in all directions like it only can after someone's run their fingers through it, collar undone and bruises decorating his pale neck, until it was impossible for him to walk outside without everyone and their mother knowing exactly what he was getting up to. 

Even if they didn't know who with, Jason always slinking off right after, disguise firmly in place, the sneaky bastard that he is. 

But tonight? Nothing. Not so much as a text message. 

Yeah. Weird. 

Tim tucks his hands into his trouser pockets, stepping back to survey the ballroom. He can probably sneak out the kitchen exit without anyone seeing him or maybe duck out during the next spirited dance number but before he can give it a second thought, a heavy, assured hand falls on his shoulder and Tim's craning his neck up to look at Bruce. 

"Hey, B. Great party." 

Bruce shakes his head, an amused smile lingering around the corner of his lips. "It's a good thing you're a better liar in the field, Tim." 

Something prickles along Tim's spine, a hint of shame, and a flush rises high in his cheeks. He may hate big galas but he hates Bruce's disappointment that much more. "Sorry, B." 

Bruce sighs, a heavy, weighted thing. "Don't apologize, Tim. I know you didn't sign up for this circus when I adopted you. You've been much better about it than most would given the circumstances." 

"B?" Tim asks, because it feels like there's working towards having A Moment and that's always a little bit on the strange side, the two of them tip-toeing around whatever they really want to say because they're both equally inept at this. It might actually be the best thing they have in common. 

"Go home, Tim. Thanks for coming," Bruce says, giving his shoulder another squeeze before slipping away. 

Tim doesn't need to be told twice. 

\--- 

When Tim lets himself into his apartment, most of the lights are off except for a few in the kitchen. Their somewhat off-beat decorations, in the form of a bright pink fake tree and a plug-in Menorah that Jason picked up from a garage sale a couple of weeks ago, blink weakly at him. The only thing out of place is an entire Saran wrap covered tray of Christmas cookies sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Alfred's Christmas cookies, to be more exact. 

The crumpled piece of paper with the recipe on it is attached to the refrigerator with a Gotham Knights magnet, a giant Jason-shaped dough smudge on one of the corners and when Tim peers into the trashcan, he finds the remains of what ingredients were used up in the baking process. 

"Huh," Tim says. 

Tim tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter, toeing off his shoes before creeping into the living room where Jason is, perhaps unsurprisingly, passed out asleep on couch, an arm thrown across his face and covered head to toe in flour. 

Part of him considers just draping a blanket over Jason and going to bed but a greater part of him, the part of him that's been antsy all night, wants a goddamn explanation so he reaches out and with great maturity, flicks Jason on the forehead. 

"Jay?" 

"Huh? What?" Jason removes the arm from across his face and blinks sleepily up at him. "You're home early." 

"Jason, what the hell?" 

"What the hell, what?" Jason says. 

"Did you seriously spend all night baking?" 

"You gave me the recipe for Alfred's cookies! I was bored. Patrol was boring and I was bored," Jason says, more than a touch defensively, as he slouches into a sitting position, stretching from his nap. "I would've waited for you to help but I wanted them to be edible." 

"I'm not _that_ bad," Tim snaps, even though he is that bad and he knows it. He's not really sure why he's annoyed. There's no good reason to be other than the fact that he had it in his mind that this was something they were going to do together which yeah, okay, baking cookies together has to probably top the list of cheesy rom-com things that they'd never do but still, it was -- it was an idea, okay. He liked the idea of it. 

"You're gonna be pissy about this for some reason that I'm not gonna understand, aren't you," Jason says, blowing out a breath that makes his shaggy, too-long white streak of hair rise up. 

"You need a haircut," Tim says and Jason rolls his eyes. 

"So, I'll take that as a yes. Here, let's try this again," Jason says, all put upon patience that let's Tim know that he's really on the way to being annoyed and if they keep this up, they're going to wind up fighting. "Hi, Tim. I baked cookies for us while you were gone. I thought it'd be a nice surprise. How was the party? You look like a penguin." 

"Those are tuxedos," Tim says mulishly. 

"What?"

"Tuxedos look like penguins. I'm not wearing a tuxedo." 

Jason raises an eyebrow but doesn't rise to it. "You're such an asshole, Tim." 

"Pot, kettle," Tim grumbles but he sighs, shrugs it out, because he's being ridiculous and he knows it. "I'm sorry. The party was fine. Same old, same old. Could've done with a distraction or two, though." 

"What, no dashing vagabond to ravish you in the coat closet?" Jason says. 

"Hey now," Tim says, "I think we all know who does the ravishing around here." 

"Don't we just." 

"Don't get any bright ideas, Mister Todd," Tim says archly. "I'm not letting you get flour all over this suit, Tam would kill me and then what would you do." 

"Go looking for a new boyfriend, probably," Jason says, shrugging. "Do you think Zachary Zatara is single?" 

"Not your type," Tim says. 

Jason hums. "You're right. Guess there's only one thing for it. Take off the suit, Tim." 

Tim reaches for his tie to loosen it when Jason interrupts him. "C'mon, slowly now. The TV's out because of the blizzard, you gotta give me a show." 

Tim -- Tim wants to say something snarky, wants to one-up Jason in this little game of theirs, but anything he might have said dies in his throat at the look on Jason's face, the hooded eyes and the slow, curling smirk that goes straight to Tim's cock. 

"A show, huh?" Tim says, and suit be-damned, he lets Jason curl a finger into a belt loop and tug him closer, lets him rub circles through the thin dress shirt into the skin beneath, and Tim can feel the slow, building warmth, the tension of almost but not all the way there yet. "I mean, I really should thank you for the cookies. It _was_ pretty uncharacteristically thoughtful of you." 

Jason huffs a laugh, making a face that probably lands somewhere along the lines of 'yeah, good enough.' They haven't learned yet how to be all the way nice to each other, not with their words, so they let their actions do the talking. It works, most of the time, except when it doesn't. 

"Now you're talking my language, rich boy."


End file.
